The Second Son
by TolkienScribe
Summary: How did Faramir, son of Denethor come to terms with his father's death? One night when he was offered no sleep, Faramir ponders on the past events of his life and a companion shows him the brightness of the future. For Teitho December Challenge "Memory".


**The Second Son**

 **Summary:** How did Faramir, son of Denethor come to terms with his father's death? One night when he was offered no sleep, Faramir ponders on the past events of his life and a companion shows him the brightness of the future.

Written for Teitho December Challenge "Memory".

Constructive criticism is welcome. Flames aren't.

Enjoy!

 **~S~**

 _Minas Tirith,_

 _Gondor,_

 _Fourth Age,_

It was yet another restless night.

I thought earlier when I retired that the open windows would give me some respite but it was not so. For one, no sleep came to me. And for another, the gust of cool night air that circulated through the room only heightened my senses. I sighed. Rest evaded me every night since I found out the true nature of my father's demise. The thought of sleep was uncomfortable; and I developed a strange feeling that if I fell into deep slumber, I'd awaken in a tomb of fire and be burned till I joined my father for eternity.

The discomforting thought chased away all weariness in my body and I sat up till I leaned my back against the headboard. My fingers rose on their own accord, slipped under my shirt and traced the puckered scar of the arrow that pierced me. It was a flesh wound, the kind that should have healed and left me with only scar and a tale to tell my men. The dart did nothing. But the result of it was that I grew unconscious and suffered the Black Breath instead. It drove me to the death's door and my father to the depths of insanity. I circled it with the pad of my index finger and then I shook my head. If I needed to keep these dark thoughts, then I might as well face them, instead of burying them deep inside me as I continued to do for the past few days.

I left the bed, since I never liked sleeping in unnecessarily. I pulled on a tunic over my shirt and habit forced me to grab my sword before I left the room. As I neared the door, however, my eyes fell on the Steward's staff. It sat with all its glory, a white rod with its bulbous head circled with bands of gold its very own display case. It was not the one that descended from one hand of the Steward to another. My father broke the previous staff in his madness and its remains burned with him. A new one was made for me to carry, from the branch of the White Tree. By code of court, it was something I must carry at all times but this late at night, I doubted protocol mattered much. Instead the seal I wore on my right hand and last finger would have to suffice.

Marble and stone chilled much quickly than wood. So Minas Tirith often remained cooler throughout the year, even during the most intense days of summer. I inclined my head towards the guards I passed by, but otherwise I ignored them. There was no need to be armed when guards covered every door and window, but the feel of a weapon in my hands while I felt unease was comforting. So I continued on, with a sword clenched in my fist until I reached the throne room.

The throne room; it was a creation of art. The floor was tiled black and white throughout the room. The ceiling was vaulted and supported by numerous pillars arranged in proper lines and between each pillar, a statue of a king of a long forgotten past loomed over most of the room. At one end of the room were two dual doors, nearly reaching the ceiling. On the other end, two thrones faced him.

The first chair was at the ground, simpler and less extravagant. Beside it was a series of small steps that led to a higher chair. That chair was much more extravagant, with thick cushions, and found lettering along the edges. I stopped before them. The room was empty, aside from the statues that watched my every move with stony eyes.

I first turned my gaze on the king's chair. Unnumbered years had passed and it was I who witnessed the king's coming among the Line of Stewards. When I was young, I often watched the servants clean and dust the king's throne, as if it waited for someone to fill it- someone who was not there. I was content with my life as the second son, even though my father spared nothing in making sure both sons were brought up equally. After Boromir's death, there were moments when I was on the line of duty, surrounded by the friends I made among the Rangers and in the wilderness that I often wondered if dark times were ahead.

Then I turned my gaze towards the steward's chair… my chair. It was strange to think it was mine when all my years I watched my father fill it instead. As a second son, I was prepared for any unforeseen event by which my brother didn't succeed my father, but I truly never imagined the title would come to me. Even as I fixed my gaze on it, my thoughts ran first to my father. Memories were attached to that chair, and it was as if my father's presence oozed from it. I remembered him holding attendance at court, his declarations. I remembered his gestures, the way he sat or spoke. All of it was passed into memory. Whatever was left of him was the evidence of everything he touched or wore, like the Steward's ring upon my finger.

Since the moment I was told precisely how my father left Arda, nearly everyone I spoke to avoided mentioning my father. Even the distant claim of his made everyone around me uncomfortable. What they saw of him was one or maybe two or three sides of him. But my father was a very complicated man.

Father often said, "A man has many faces and he never shows all of them." I found it was indeed true. In my experience while dealing with men among the military as well as nobility, I noticed that one man behave differently when he faced a person of high rank than with any other. This helped me understand people greatly, and I became more adept at discerning a person's personality, loyalty, truthfulness and goals with such frightening clarity that some even deemed me distrustful.

This was a gift I shared with my father. Boromir was also good in his own fashion, but it wasn't an instinct like me or my father. It was my father who noticed it first and helped me hone it until little passed by me.

While I attributed the finesse of the gift to my father, the consequences of it were always different. I was more moved towards pity and mercy but he was mostly unmoved. He'd argue a man deserved due punishment for his crime while I protested, saying the man did it for the honour of his daughter… and it was the duty of the kingdom to ensure safety for its women.

His dissatisfaction only deepened when I began to seek out Mithrandir whenever he visited Minas Tirith. My father was a quiet man, and rarely spoke, but his emotions and thoughts spoke volumes in his actions rather than his words. He never directly reprimanded me for my choice. Father himself possessed warring amounts of trust and distrust towards the Wizard. While Mithrandir and father didn't always agree, Mithrandir had his uses. And father was well aware of that.

But these recollections were all very recent. He was a different man when I was approaching adulthood. He was stern, didn't tolerate insolence. I supposed it made sense; he was a father of two lively and loud boys, the elder of the two always picked fights and the younger of the two always scrambled away to read in peace! I suspected that as young boys, we gave our father an impressive amount of grief and anguish. We were both slightly reckless when we first started soldiering, Boromir more than I. One of our beginning missions went awry, and we were both feared to be dead. When we were returned to our father, safe from most hurts (Boromir suffered a flesh wound and I sported a sprained knee), father enveloped us both in fierce hugs and then gave us a scolding I never forgot. He stripped us of our privileges for a month, claiming if we were to behave as unruly boys, then he'd treat us that way.

He never tried to take on the role of both mother and father, and he never remarried to replace our mother. Instead we had a nanny who looked after the both of us, well into our manhood, when she made sure our beds were readied and our favourite meals were for dinner when we returned to Minas Tirith. Now, I barely remembered father before mother's death; I was only five summers when she passed. I barely remembered even my mother. All I remembered were brief images, like her smile, her eyes and her hand caressing my head fondly. I remembered the sweet perfume my mother wore. But my brother was ten and he remembered much clearly. He told me mother was the light and joy of father.

He was a grim man from the start, who rarely enjoyed humour, but he was a loving man. It was in his gruffness when he noted a wound we hid well, or when he bid us to rest while giving our reports. With mother gone, it was in his longing glance at her portrait he hung in his bedchamber.

Father, by nature, was uncommon. As a person, he was a man of principle, who functioned along the law and order. He didn't take surprises kindly, and for this reason, I am told, he distrusted Thorongil greatly.

They say a man's nature is his own and cannot be changed. And so it was true for my father as well. He held suspicion for anything of which he had no knowledge. Thorongil was among them. Perhaps his lack of confidence increased over the years, until he eyed everything with suspicion and distrust, including his own and sole son-myself- to be against him.

I knew how my father was portrayed when the songs were sung concerning the War. He was quickly fashioned into a twisted form like a villain in a children's story. I put my father to blame partly for this; he was too distant, too aloof. To rule, you needed to win the hearts of the people, like my grandfather did, or like Aragorn did when he wore the cloak of 'Thorongil', the stranger who once served my grandfather.

But my father thought it a waste of time and spent more time in the Citadel than out with the people. Boromir was marginally better but he always said it was I who truly held the people's hearts.

"You have this air, little brother," he said to me once, without teasing or jesting. His face was solemn and his eyes were sincere. "You seem kingly and wise but you are not intimidating. There is gentleness in you that make everyone draw nearer to you. It makes them want to love you."

I never gave it much thought, but later, during the War and after my brother passed away, I took comfort from it. My father grew increasingly difficult, and my loyalty towards him began to strain. It was the love Gondor showed me and which I returned that kept me strong.

It was a lie to say I wasn't affected when he changed during the War. His sharp rebukes, his underlying words, his dissatisfaction at every choice I made, were burned forever in my mind. I held my tongue patiently since I knew the grief he felt at the news of Boromir's death was unparalleled, and it was probably greater than the time when he lost my beloved mother. He became bitter, unjust in his words, and harsh. Perhaps somewhere in my father's mind, he concocted a fanciful tale that I orchestrated my brother's death to take his place instead.

What an outlandish claim.

The last thought left me bitter and I became aware of the fact that I stood for too long, staring at the chair my father will never occupy again. My entire family had left the world- left me here to journey on my own. When the War began, I wished the entire family pulled through unscathed, or had hoped, at least, to find at least one living still. But fate, it seemed, decided otherwise.

While one hand held a sword, but the other one held a key in a tight fist. I requested it earlier from Aragorn. The king raised a brow but I was grateful he said nothing. I turned it between my fingers and decided it was time.

The depths of the Citadel were always eerie. I avoided descending into them as a child. I remember my father often disappeared into them and he returned in the wee hours of the morning. I wasn't meant to know; neither of us were meant to know in fact but I was always more inquisitive than my brother. I descended the stairs carefully. The stairs were old, worn down by age and the steps were narrow.

The staircase led to a slim corridor lit by torches. There were numerous doors on either side but only one interested me. I stopped before it and unlocked the door. The metal-reinforced door was swung open with a groan.

The room was circular, with pillars embedded within the walls for additional support. The depth of the Citadel was near the foundation, and so the room I stood in was made of stone rather than marble. The lighting was scarce with only a few lanterns lit. The rest of the room was cast into shadow. An ominous room for an ominous object, I thought.

My eyes drew towards the single, high table in the middle of the room. It surface was circle in shape, supported with a thick circular post until it widened at the base. I never entered this room, even in my adulthood. My father kept us strictly away from it. Not even the servants or guards were allowed to enter.

A large, unadorned dark shroud covered a circle object, the hem of the cloth dangled off the table's edge. I approached it carefully. My footfalls echoed off the ceiling and walls, the metal plate underneath the boots clicking against the stone. In my haste to leave my room, I wore my formal pair of boots.

My eyes never left the orb as I circled it. It was a small thing and yet it created such trouble. I heard the rumours and I even spoke to Gandalf and Aragorn at length. They wondered precisely how Denethor knew matters before their time. The palantír worked both ways. All the palantíri were connected and it was legend that each palantír saw into the other palantíri. Some of them were recorded to be missing and one or two were rumoured to reside in the dark land.

Gandalf believed that Denethor challenged Sauron to a battle of wills, to which the Dark Lord gladly accepted. He escaped uncorrupted, but he aged drastically.

My father. In a battle of wills with Sauron himself. I shook my head as I continued to circle the orb. Even a child would call it a foolish mission. I do not know what I should think. My father hid his feelings carefully. He hid his personal doings so secretly in the recent years that both my brother and I barely knew him at times.

Perhaps it was the death of his wife that scarred him irreparably. Or perhaps it was his driven goal to protect his people from all harm that Mordor could unleash, the very same harm that my mother withered before.

My hand hovered over the ink-black cloth with more hesitation than I previously thought. It even trembled slightly. But I had to know.

With one jerky move, and very little grace, I wrenched the cloth away.

The orb sat comfortably in a circle of metal upon the table. I first marvelled its smoothness, the perfect roundness of its form. The dim light reflected of its surface and it gave the orb an eerie sheen. None knew where the palantír came from. The knowledge was lost to time.

I placed on foot on the higher step and then another until I stood directly above the palantír. And then I looked.

At first I saw nothing but a bottomless, black pit. I nearly guffawed, thinking the rumours were indeed myths but the laugh stopped short in my throat. A ring of fire appeared, red, orange and yellow against a black background. Then two shapes rose until they refined into a pair of withered hands shaking in pain and agony. My father's hands.

I stepped back in shock and stumbled down the step in my haste. The image drew away and disappeared within the orb, but it was seared in my memory.

My hands were openly shaking. Every breath I took was laboured and short. The black shroud lay in a rumpled heap not far from me. I clenched my hands in fists and purposely walked up to it. Stooping, I picked it up and returned the shroud to the orb. My breath loosed in a sigh of relief once the orb disappeared under the shroud.

I turned my back to it and sank down on the ground until I sat on the raised step and my legs splayed outward. I sank my head into my hands and tried to regain my composure.

The first few thoughts flashed through my head and I only made out half-sentences. I never thought- it couldn't be possible- I imagined the rumours were only myths- exaggerations told my wandering minstrels to gain more coin and fame. But there it was. I knew my father's hands. Ever since I opened my eyes and gained use of long memory, I found his hands at one task or another. He despised staying idle. I watched the new wrinkles appear and take form as the years passed by. I rubbed my face with my hands but I didn't remove them.

It was true.

When they told me my father burned himself on a pyre, and that he intended to take me with him, I knew they were truthful, but it never truly sank into my heart. Dismantled, strange memories returned to my mind; the scent of oil catching fire, the feel of wood underneath me, the smell of clothes burning.

Among the dreams the War left me as a token, I remembered there was one of myself as a child in the company of my father. But while I was young, my father was old, with grey hair and wrinkles on his hands and face. His face drawn in displeasure and agony and he was impassive toward me while I tried to gain his attention. An elderly man came with white hair and beard, clad in white garments. He took my hand and led me away and I willingly followed. Then I watched as my father reduced himself in a weeping and pleading man who begged for my return. Startled, I cried out to him, but he disappeared in a tower of hot fire.

The impression of the dream faded from my mind when I turned at the waist and looked behind at the table. I craned my neck and I only managed to look up at the table's edge. The orb was hidden from where I sat. Briefly I wondered if I possessed my father's strength, if I was able to turn the palantír to show me something else. I entertained the rough plan for a moment before dispelling it. A glimpse in the orb was more than enough to shake my roots, and I wasn't willing to venture again.

I stood, picked up my discarded sword and left the room. The door groaned as it shut, and I turned the key in its lock before I ascended the steps to join the world above me.

I was lost in my musings when I wandered aimlessly through the corridors. Memories flashed across my mind, and I repeated everything to myself of that I knew about my father when I found I wasn't alone. A voice called out, disembodied in the shadows.

"You couldn't sleep, either."

My hand found the hilt of my sword and I pulled the sword free halfway before the voice broke through my instincts, full of dry humour.

"Will you pull your sword against your king?"

I froze in shock and then I slipped my sword back into its cover. I peered into the shadows along the corridor. I saw nothing.

"Which king spends his time skulking about his own home?" I said. My heart returned to its normal pace. The excitement of the prospect of a fight drained from my veins. Aragorn stepped out of the shadows, into the bright moonlight shining from the open window in his path.

"Do not say that," Aragorn said, his teeth flashed in a warm, wide grin. His hair was loose, locks around his shoulders and he looked fresh from sleep. "Say rather a ranger still used to his old habits."

"If that were true, it would be the same for me." I returned, a smile curling my lips as well. The darkness from what I saw in the orb disappeared. I couldn't help myself for reacting so openly to him. He possessed this air of hidden power, this quiet sort of aristocracy in his behaviour and yet in his manners there was this softness that drew me to him. I stood by his shoulder and we looked out into the night. The silver light bathed the entire city in its sheen, turning it into an ethereal city of dreams. The silence was soothing and I found that I enjoyed the company of the king.

"What keeps you from sleep tonight?" Aragorn asked. His voice was amiable, and not intrusive. The choice was open for me to take. I could choose whether or not I wanted to answer.

I wordless held up the key for him to see. The king's brows furrowed.

"Ah," Aragorn said and took the key from me. "Did you find what you seek?"

"Yes," I answered truthfully, "but it only brought more unrest and confusion."

Then I found, to my surprise and wry amusement that for all my talent in understanding the hearts of men, my father's someone I would not-and never will-completely understand. It was an exasperating thought.

"And what keeps you from sleep, my lord?" I asked him in turn. Aragorn gave a soft laugh and leaned over to the window, one battle-worn hand pressed against the wall.

"The silence of empty halls and the lack of activity of nightly animals," Aragorn said with a smile. Then he shook his head, "I am too accustomed to the Wild, I fear." His smile faded and we settled into untroubled, companionable silence. Then the king sighed. He turned his attention towards me and said gently, "Your father was good man, and he loved you greatly, as much as he did your brother. The War was too hard on him, and the Dark Lord played with his fears and twisted his perception for his own amusement and gain. The palantír served him ill in the end, with Sauron gifting him with false news and plans. He was a good man, turned away from the path because of what the Dark Lord did to him." He placed his hand on my shoulder and offered me a consoling smile. "Do not torture yourself over your father's actions. What is done is done. To dwell on the past only brings unhappiness and a new life in a new world awaits you, my steward. It is one that I have no doubt Denethor would wish for you, if he were unbroken from the War and alive." With that, he squeezed his hand upon my shoulder, declared it was time for him to retire and left. His words of a new life in a new world first brought Éowyn to my mind, along with Pippin and my men. I also thought of Beregond and found, to my delight, I was surrounded with people I knew and loved, and served a king I knew was just.

When he was gone, I finally understood.

My father, in all accounts, was just a man, with flaws and values. There was no excuse for his mistakes, but there was no excuse for his undying love and care either.

The conclusion brought me more peace and relief than I could put in words. I sighed softly, and the mystery around my father's actions faded from my mind. The churning emotions of grief and numbness settled and I saw my father for who he really was; simply a man, who lived out his lifetime with his choices.

Weariness returned, I returned to my quarters and set my sword in its place. I tugged off my boots and leaned over with elbows resting on my thighs. Sudden inspiration came upon me and I left my bed and reached the trunk at the foot of the bed. I unlocked it and searched through my belongings.

My hand unseeingly found what I was looking for. I felt the sensation of cold, hard metal forming a small figurine under my fingers. I tugged it free and retrieved it. When I stood on my feet, I held up the toy iron soldier until moonlight shone over its surface.

I was slightly amused. The iron soldier was of exceptional craftsmanship. The arms even moved, with fine wires attached between the arms and chest. It belonged to a large set my brother and I shared. I did not know what became of the set. Perhaps it was hidden somewhere in the numerous crates hidden in the attic. Boromir and I each took one iron soldier more out of giddy mischief than anything. I do not know what became of Boromir's counterpart. Perhaps he kept it in his belongings when he travelled to Rivendell. I certainly didn't find it in his room. The thought of his own soldier, hidden somewhere in his pack while he travelled to sea brought some measure of comfort to me. It was a connection between us.

Sleep came just before daybreak, and with the fresh morning air, came the sweet dreams of childhood.

oOo

"You are quiet of late."

The softly spoken voice broke through my thoughts. I looked beside me, at the young slim woman with her wheat-gold hair. Éowyn's expression was quizzical.

"Forgive me," I apologised. "My thoughts were elsewhere. Pray say that again."

Éowyn made an impatient noise.

"Forget what I meant to say. It concerns Éomer setting the bride price but we can speak of it later." She waved it away in dismissal and I was amused. Had it not been the fact that we were chaperoned from a short distance, I would have taken a liberty. Her voice became insistent. "Tell me what weighs on your mind."

She was gentler than before; she lost the harsh and grim demeanour I first saw her with. But she was still bold and honest. Of that I was grateful. I complied with her wishes.

"I was thinking of my father and mother." I said. I watched as her face became guarded. She was wary, like everyone else were when I hinted my father. But at least she didn't shy away.

"And what of your mother and father?"

I said nothing at first. Instead, I raised my hand and ran my fingers through her shining golden hair until my hand rested on the mantled shoulder. The cloak suited her more than I realised. It almost seemed as if it were made especially for her. I captured one of her hands in mine and led her to a nearby bench, which faced a running fountain. The spray was cool and cast a small rainbow from the fountain. We sat down and I pressed a brief kiss on her hand before laying it on my lap, still within the warmth of my hands.

"Let me tell you," I began, "who they really were, from the eyes of son who loved them dearly."

 **~S~**

 **Author's Note:**

Edited and revised 7/2/2016.

Please read and review!


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